


20 Minutes

by Sumiscribe



Category: Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, F/F, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Other, short works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumiscribe/pseuds/Sumiscribe
Summary: A series of drabbles/short works, mostly of the Daiken variety, written for my weekly writing group.Posted regularly on Tumblr, I decided to compile them here as well, for anyone who was interested.This Entry will never be 'complete', as I will always be adding more short works.





	1. What You Don't Know

**Author's Note:**

> "20 Minutes" is a collective of short works, only loosely related in the sense that they are all derived from the same source material, and more often than not are at least mildly Daiken. My writing group meets weekly and spends 20 minutes (timed) writing something -- anything -- for the prompt we're given. Most of these had had only minor editing for typos, and some were not edited at all. Some will never be finished. I hope you'll enjoy them anyway!
> 
> This entry will never be 'complete', since each individual entry is a stand-alone piece, but I will continue to add them as they are written. I post all of these on Tumblr as well, but decided I'd like to compile them here. Thanks for reading!

**6.18.2017 --** _What You Don't Know_ _: Write about a secret you've kept from someone else or how you feel when you know someone is keeping a secret from you  
_

 

* * *

 

Daisuke hated that they had to be a Secret.  

He’d never been good at keeping secrets anyway, and this was just about the worst one ever.   All it took was one look at that smooth skin, those vibrant eyes, and that slick, inky hair and he practically had to swallow his heart.  He wanted to scream from the roof-tops (as cliche as that sounded), and he had to do the exact opposite. He was in love, and he didn’t think he had ever loved something - someONE - so much in all his life.  But that very same thing that lifted him up, made him feel like he could move mountains if he were asked, was the same thing that was slowly killing him inside.    
  
Look, but don’t touch.  
  
No holding hands, certainly no kisses.  And Ken was so much better at it than he was, had always been more reserved, more private about everything.  He had always been the only one who could really break through his shell.  Ken wasn’t ready for the world to know what they were, to each other.  
  
He wondered, if Ken would ever be ready.  
  
They’d see their friends, happily paired off, unashamed to look at each other in That way, unafraid to press up shoulder to shoulder, lace an arm around each other.  And no one questioned them, no one stared, no one judged them for their happiness.  He wanted so much to be like them, to put his arm around that slender frame and, without words, proclaim to the world --  _this is mine._  
  
Why couldn’t they have that?  
  
“Are you ashamed of me?”  
  
“ _No_ !  No, of course not.”  That voice, so full of conviction. Those smooth fingers, laced in his warm, calloused ones..    
  
“Then how come you only let me kiss you when we’re alone?”  
  
But then Ken would look at him with those soulful eyes, and that heart-breaking expression, and he knew.  He knew when they got into this, why they had to keep it quiet.  He knew, that if this is truly what he wanted, he had to wait.  Patience was never his virtue, but for Ken, he would do it.  He would never be expected to, but he’d do it anyway.  Because those looks, those touches, those words of affection were all his, when no one else could see.  
  
And he hoped, one day, they wouldn't have to be a Secret anymore. 

 


	2. Warehouse

**_6.15.17_ ** _\-- Warehouse: Write about being inside an old abandoned warehouse.  
(NOTE: This piece is unfinished) _

* * *

 

It wasn’t exactly the ideal shelter, but it would have to do.  Beggars couldn’t be choosers after all, and the storm was getting worse by the minute.  While it was kind of _weird_ to find an old warehouse in the middle of a valley,  this was the Digital World, and weird was the status quo on most days.   At the first sight of the building they had all rushed inside, eager to be out of the rain.   
  
“Ugh, I’m soaked,” Takeru mumbled, plucking the hat from his head, and ringing it out over the cracked cement floors.   
  
“You’re not alone,” Miyako snapped, pulling the glasses from her face and quickly realizing she had nothing on which to dry them.     
  
“Maybe there’s something we can build a fire with,” Hikari suggested, pushing wet hair from her face..  
  
“Fire, yes. Fire would be really great right about now,” Daisuke added, peeling off his sopping aviator coat.  
  
“Um, guys.  I hate to make a bad situation worse, but, I think there are some leaks,” said Iori.  
  
The others followed his gaze, and sure enough, there were puddles all over the old floors.  Ken glanced up at the ceiling, so far overhead, slats of darkened sky visible through yawning breaks in the rusted metal.  Daisuke followed Ken’s example and received a drip of water in his eyes for his effort.  
  
“Hnngh, yeah, definitely a leak,” he grumbled.  

“But, there must be a dry spot somewhere,” said Hikari, making every effort to lift her team’s spirits.   Her success rate was variable.  
  
Somehow, the inside of the warehouse seemed even colder than the outside.  The gales bellowing rattled the doors on their rusted hinges, and chilled gusts blew in through the cracks in the walls.  It was quickly becoming very clear that building a fire was going to be more of a necessity than a luxury.   Damp old wooden crates filled the cavernous room with a musty smell of dirt and mildew, but they would hopefully not be so wet that they wouldn’t light.  Daisuke and Ken set to breaking down one of the boxes, while the others pushed several around to form a circle and block out the wind.  Sweat mingled with the chill of rainwater against their skin, until finally they’d built a rather sizable pitch of broken, rotted planks in the center.    
  
“Don’t suppose anyone brought matches…?” asked Iori.    
  
The lot of them looked back and forth between each other, one by one shaking their heads.    
  
“Even if we did, they’d be soaked by now, and probably useless anyway,” proclaimed Miyako, dejectedly sitting cross-legged on the icey cement  


“Does anyone know how to start a fire without matches?”  Iori tried again.    
  
Once again, he was met by a shaking of heads.  Having been utterly silent all the while, Ken released a breathy sigh, and peered into the darkness of their surroundings.  Most of them seemed merely inconvenienced and irritable from their circumstances.  Ken, however, seemed completely unsettled.  He’d barely strayed more than two yards from Daisuke’s side since they’d set foot inside.  Without their Digimon Partners, they were at a decided disadvantage, on all fronts.  
  
“Man…” Daisuke groaned, “if we hadn’t gotten separated, this wouldn’t be an issue.  All it would take is ONE SHOT from Fladamon, and we’d be set!”   
  
“Well… he’s not here, so we’ll just have to deal,” Miyako snapped.   
  
“Geez Miyako, who spit in your cereal this morning,” Daisuke grummbled.  
  
“ _Daisuke_ ,” Ken warned softly, setting a hand on his shoulder, “let her be.”


	3. Insult

**_6.29.17 --_ ** _Insult: Write about being insulted_

* * *

  


“Mom, Dad, this is Ichijouji Ken.  Though, I’m sure you know who he is.” Daisuke said with a grin.  
  
Ken bowed his head ever so slightly in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you.”   
  
“Wow, I can’t believe the genius boy is friends with Daisuke,” Jun chirped, leaning on the back of the couch.     
  
“This is so exciting!  It’s like we have a celebrity in our home,” Daisuke’s mother crooned, clasping her hands in delight.  “Lets order some good Sushi!”   
  
“Please!”  Daisuke’s father cried, a strange excitement filling his eyes as he vaulted up off the couch, “Can you tutor my stupid son?”   
  
Ken winced, and Daisuke sighed heavily, his face falling.  He supposed, he couldn’t have expected better from his family.   
  
“Just ignore them,” he grumbled, resigned and embarrassed.  He pushed his shoulder against Ken’s and ushered them both of them out of the living room, leaving the rest of the Motomiya’s to their own business.  He knew them well enough to know that they’d be too busy with themselves to bother them again, at least until dinner was ready.   
  
Once inside Daisuke’s bedroom, the smile returned to his sun-kissed face.  Ken however lingered at the door, his hand on the knob, staring at the wooden frame as if it might grant him the answer to some unasked question.     
  
“Something wrong?”  Daisuke asked, tilting his head to the side, and a strange dread filled his chest.  This was probably the first time Ken had stayed over at a friend’s house.  Was he worried?   Scared?  This whole friendship thing was kinda knew for him, maybe he was--   
  
“Do they always talk about you like that?”   
  
Daisuke startled out of his thoughts, and blinked owlishly.  Ken finally looked up at him, and strange mix of something painful churned behind his sharp blue eyes.     
  
“...Like… what?” Daisuke asked, his hands folded behind his back.  Nervously, he picked at his cuticles.     
  
“Like…”  Ken grit his teeth.  “What your father said.”   
  
Oh.  Daisuke deflated ever so slightly.  

“Ah, they’re just… ya know.  I mean, I don’t get the best grades,” Daisuke said bashfully, “I’m certainly nowhere _near_ as good as you are when it comes to--”   
  
“That’s no reason to call you stupid!” Ken snapped, startling both of them equally.  Daisuke’s mouth shut with a sharp clack, and Ken looked away sharply, fixing his gaze on the book-case.     
  
“Ah… Mm…”  Daisuke absently rubbed the back of his neck, and felt the odd weight returning to his shoulders.     
  
In truth, he’d heard it so many times, in so many ways, he’d almost grown numb to it.  Almost.  Heck, until Ken brought it up, he’d been more concerned about his parents being embarrassing in front of someone he wanted to impress.  He hadn’t exactly noticed the all-too-familiar disparaging comments from his Dad, his Sister…   
  
“Well, ya know how it is sometimes,” he tried again, tucking his hands into his pockets so that he would stop fidgeting.  “I mean, Parents.  They don’t get it, ya know?”   
  
“I just… I can’t believe they’d insult you like that, and in front of a guest,” Ken croaked, and Daisuke looked up sharply at his change in tone.     
  
“Ichijouji, I--”   
  
“You’re not stupid, Motomiya.”  And finally, Ken deigned to look at him again.  There was a sureness in his face, his posture, and tone of his voice that practically wrapped around Daisuke’s soul and lifted it into a taller, straighter position.  And then Ken softened, as if the blow had been to his own ego, rather than Daisuke’s.   “You’re just… not.”   


The dumbest of smiles lit Daisuke’s face, a warmth rising to his cheeks.    
  
“Thanks.  I mean… if someone as smart as you thinks so, it must be true… right?” 


	4. Mirror Mirror

**_7.27.17  --_** _Mirror, Mirror: What if your mirror started talking to you?_

* * *

  
Time changes many things.  Children grow older, and by they time they’ve reached their 20’s it’s hard to believe they’d ever been so small, so round and soft.  Ken stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, loosened his tie, and paused.  When had been the last time he had truly looked at himself.  High, sharp cheekbones were flushed from the two and a half glasses of wine he’d had at the wedding reception, the color only serving to pronounce his slender nose, thinned lips... all framed by hair that he’d grown even longer than in his childhood.  It had always suited him, in a weird way.   But there had been a time he hadn’t been able to look himself in the mirror at all -- when his eyes had been sharp and unkind, and his face reminded him too much of his brother.  They’d looked quite alike, really, once Ken had reached his same age.  And the Kaiser, whether conscious or not, had resembled him even more, with the wild hair, and the glasses he didn’t need.     
  
There had been a time, even after that, when Ken hadn’t been able to look at his reflection without seeing the shadows of his past.  He barely resembled that troubled 11-year-old now -- a decade could do so much.     
  
His reflection sneered at him.  He felt the brows rise on his face, but didn’t see them shift in the glass.     
  
“Look at what you’ve become.”   
  
Ken startled.  His mouth hadn’t formed those words, he hadn’t felt them in his throat, or on his tongue, but he’d heard them with his own ears, in his own voice.  He stumbled back from the counter, into the towel bar, staring with eyes wide and mouth agape.   His reflection only looked at him in mockery and disdain.     
  
“Are you _happy_ with yourself?  Average boy, average life.  Well on your way to being a salaryman, juuust like your old man.”  Disgust dripped from familiar lips, words drenched in saccharin-acid.  “You could have been so much more.  You had it all!  You had power, you had FAME, and you threw it all away, for WHAT?”   
  
Ken grasped at the wall, his eyes fixed on the glass, the visage of himself moving and speaking on it’s own.  “Y-y’re not real,” he slurred, tongue slowed by booze and horror.   
  
“Aren’t I?” his reflection mocked, grasping his hairless chin and stroking thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s YOU who isn’t real.  Ever think about that?”   
  
His eye screwed shut and he grabbed at his head. The voice seemed to echo off the closed-in walls of the bathroom.  He couldn’t see him anymore, but he could still feel him, those cold eyes, that look of disdain, all beneath a mask of smug superiority.     
  
“You’re a fraud, you know.  A complete, total fake.”   
  
“Shuddup.”   
  
“And the way you let   _him_ hang all over you.  That disgusting, lowly insect.”   
  
A fire erupted in his chest.  Blindly, he reached for the brush on the counter, grasped it with white knuckles and hot rage.   
  
“DON’T. CALL HIM THAT!”   
  
_CRASH!_  Ken’s eyes flew open.  The brush had collided with the glass, now all spider webs and fractures copies of his own face, open and panting, and full of fear.   
  
“Ken!” The sound of his name from the door pulled his attention away.  There stood Daisuke, already dressed down to his pajama pants and nothing more.  “I heard you yelling and --”   
  
He looked at the mirror and froze.  The words dried up.  Slowly, shattered bits of glass fell from the mirror frame into the porcelain basin below.  Ken’s hands went to his face, fingers in his hair, and a single ragged sob escaped his throat as he crumpled in on himself.   
  
“I…  It was… I saw…. I…”   
  
Solid arms wrapped around him, pulled him in to smoother against warm skin.     
  
“Shh.  It’s ok,” Daisuke murmured into his hair.  Ken struggled to find words, but settled instead for steadying the shaking in his shoulders.     
  
“ ...Have a little too much to drink tonight?” Daisuke’s fingers and the sound of his voice were soothing and familiar.  Slowly, he guided him toward the doorway, the darkened hall, away from the bright carnage of the bathroom.   “C’mon… we’ll… worry about the mirror in the morning. Ok?”       
  
Ken was almost positive he could do without looking in a mirror again for a very long time.  


	5. Dirty

**8.3.2017** -  _Dirty.  Write about being covered in mud._

* * *

 

A little rain never stopped a good soccer game.  This would have been better described as a downpour. and the field had turned to more mud than grass, sodden clods furiously kicked up under dozens of pairs of cleats.  The adults were ready to call it off, and the rookies whined a little, but the veteran players refused, diving right in as if their lives depended on it.  And in a way, they did -- This match would determine which of them advanced to the championship.  Visibility was wretched, and their uniforms were utterly destroyed within minutes, but neither team captain was backing down, much to the chagrin of their team-mates.   The rain-soaked whistle sounded like a drowning bird as the two boys took off down the field.  Twin blurs of Green and Red as Ken, in control of the ball, raced for the goal posts with Daisuke hot on his heels.  Tossing a smirk over his shoulder, Ken pushed further, poor Daisuke caught in the kickback of drowned earth.  Brow drawn down, he leaned into the run and sputtered as some of the soil flew into his mouth.  

“Is that all you’ve got today, Motomiya?”  Ken teased, his eyes glinting beneath the drenched fringe of his hair. 

With a low growl and deeply bent knees, Daisuke did what he was best at; he hung the rules, and took a flying tackle toward his rival and best friend.  Ken’s eyes widened for a split second, just before they collided, the air knocked swiftly from his lungs as they both crashed to the ground.  The fall should have been harder, but instead, it sucked them in like a soggy sponge, an impressive wake kicked up as they skidded a shallow trench into the field.  Ken cringed at the feeling of cold, slimy earth tilled and forced down the back of his shirt, his hair now equal parts soaked and soiled.   
  
A sharp, wet whistle cut through the air.   
  
“FOUL!” cried the referee, but Daisuke merely smirked down at the taller boy laid out beneath him, his hands planted deep in the squelchy earth on either side of his head.  
  
“Heh.  Guess you could say I know how to play  _dirty_ ,” he snarked. And then he winked.  
  
If Ken’s face weren’t so covered in filth, it might have been easier to see the red heat that rushed to his cheeks.  With an undignified sputter, he shoved Daisuke to the ground; he landed with a yelp of surprise and a sickening slush of wet earth.    
  
“Two can play at that game,” Ken countered, his foot casually flicking a clod of mud at his opponent.  The Soccer ball had long since rolled away, and neither went to retrieve it.  There was a new game afoot.   
  
By the time their coaches reached them to pull them apart, they were a rolling tangle of shrieking laughter, more mud than skin or clothes, hair stuck to their faces with a thick earthen plaster.     
  
The game was immediately suspended, a rematch scheduled for the next day, and no one complained.  Well, no one except for their mothers, who decided it was a fit punishment that they should clean their uniforms themselves. 


	6. Dark to Light

**_8.10.17 -_ ** _ Light Switch: Write about coming out of the dark and seeing the light. _

* * *

  
It had all hit him so quickly, he would have likened it to being hit by a train.  It hurt almost as much, and was just as disorienting.  His reality cracked and broke into tiny pieces, the foundation of everything he had believed crumbling beneath his feet.  What he thought was fake, was real, and what he thought was real…   
  
“..They’re… real?”   
  
And he felt it all as though his heart had been suddenly switched on.   As if he’d forgotten the feeling of blood coursing through his veins and a drum in his ear.     
  
“Then what… What have I done?”   
  
His hands, gloved and covered in sand, suddenly was no longer just data.  It was skin, and leather, and find grains of pulverized rock. How had he never noticed that the sand felt too real, the water just as wet as the kind that ran from the faucet in his bathroom?  Invisible blood coated his hands.     
  
Digimon are just data --  But aren’t human beings just carbon and hydrogen, and other mixes of chemicals and stardust?  How could he have ever thought it may them less  _ real? _ _   
_ _   
_ Wormmon’s loss then, had been profound; dissolved into so much digital ash.  The one living being who had stayed by his side, who he’d taken for granted, kicked and abused and verbally assault.  He wasn’t just some annoying program.  He was living, breathing,  _ loving… _ _   
_ _   
_ __ ‘And I killed him.’   Perhaps not with his own hands this time, but he had brought him to his end all the same. 

_   
_ The darkness that blanketed him after that was so thick he wondered if he’d ever know light again.     
  
And when Leafmon had looked up at him with those wide black eyes, spoke in that tiny voice around an inexplicable pacifier his tiny mouth, he’d felt the tears in his own eyes, and the wavering smile that pulled at his cheeks.  Leafmon was warm, and bright, and the empty space in Ken’s chest filled with something so pure and brilliant, he almost shied away from it.  He thought, with all he’d done, he’d never deserve it.     
  
But he would try.  If he was good for nothing else, he would spend the rest of his days fighting to snuff out the darkness he’d left in his wake, and be worthy of the second chance he’d been given.   __   



	7. The Stars

**_8.17.17 -_ ** _ The Stars: Take inspiration from a night sky. _

* * *

 

  
Even on the clearest nights, it was impossible to see the stars in Tokyo proper.  Too much Light Pollution, whatever that was -- no matter how many times Koushirou said it, Daisuke never understood the term.   
  
“It means, that there is too much light down here, for their light to clearly be seen,” Ken had explained to him, softly enough that the others wouldn’t hear.    Not that anyone was paying attention to them;  the clank of over-filled back-packs and muttered frustrations as several of the older teens attempted to assemble the pop-up tents.     
  
They only got opportunities like this about once a year.  The tradition of packing up the van and trekking out to the woods for a long weekend in the summer had begun when Jyou, the eldest of them, had gotten his driver's license.  It was still impossible to cram 12 people into one vehicle though, so they’d managed to rope his brother into helping them ferry out to the countryside, until the following year when some of the others were old enough to take up the helm.   Though all of them were glad to be there, surrounded by the familiar calm and greenery, a bittersweet tension hung in the air.   
  
There was a high likelihood, that this might be the last of their trips, all of them gathered like this.    It was hard enough for Jyou to get time away already, and with even the youngest of them finishing off high school, adulthood was quickly sneaking up on the lot of them.  Soon it would be more than just half of them carted off to dormitories and lecture halls, or filling side jobs waiting tables.    
  
Daisuke flopped down on the grass, and stared up, up, up into the nothing overhead.  Thousands of twinkling lights even though the sun had only set under an hour earlier.  Give it another hour, maybe two, and even in the dead of night the world would have been bright enough to see by.  Like a shower of glitter and glass painted across the inky blanket of the sky.   He breathed in the gold and the light, and heaved out a sigh that made his limbs feel like they’d been tied with stones.  Softly, Ken settled in the grass beside him, arms around his knees.     
  
“...They are beautiful, aren’t they?”  he asked.     
  
Daisuke didn’t reply.  Instead, he glanced at Ken, his face half bathed in moonlight, pale and silver and his hair as dark as the night sky.     
  
“...This is gonna be the last trip, isn’t it?”   
  
Ken looked down at him suddenly.  “What?”   
  
“Don’t ‘what’, me.  You know what I’m talking about.”    The lights seemed to swim in his eyes as he turned his focus back to the sky.  Ken held his tongue.   The cicadas chorused in the cooling air, and the distant sounds of camp dripped over gently sloping hills and through the summer-dried grass.     
  
“Everything has to change eventually, Daisuke,” Ken offered softly, as if it could somehow be something other than a rude reminder.   
  
“The stars don’t change,” he bit back.  “They just go on shining, and sparkling, and lighting up the sky as if nothing has happened. Why can’t we be that lucky?”   
  
Ken laid down in the grass beside him, dark hair fanned beneath him.  “But they do change, Daisuke.  The lights we see now have taken thousands of years to reach us.  Some of those stars have probably already burnt out completely, a long time ago.  It may look the same to us, but it’s only because we haven’t caught up with them yet.”   
  
Daisuke hand found its way to Ken’s, and when he laced their fingers together, Ken didn’t pull away.  He gripped it with such intensity, as if he expected him to dissolve into sugar.    
  
“This isn’t like you,” Ken mused.  “Where’s my optimistic, determined Daisuke gone?”   
  
“I dunno…”  he murmured   
  
Ken inched closer, until they were pressed shoulder to shoulder, their linked hands pinned between their sides.  “Daisuke.  If you’re worried about--”   
  
He stopped.  Neither of them could say it.  Neither of them wanted to think about what university would do to the both of them, the distance -- both physical and metaphorical -- that it may come to push between them.   They’d seen it happen with their elders, drifting like continents on the oceans, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.   
  
It certainly didn’t feel natural to him.     
  
“Let’s just… watch for shooting stars.  Ok?”   
  
Maybe if they made the same wish, on the same star, they could stop time.


	8. No

**_8.31.17_ ** _ \- Just say no: Write about the feeling of telling someone ‘no’ _ _   
_

* * *

_   
_ It was like a tiny alarm resounding at the back of his mind.   _   
_ _   
_ “Wait.”   
  
Daisuke hesitated but did not still.  His whole body was practically buzzing, writhing, and he couldn’t help but brush his nose beneath Ken’s ear.    Ken opened his mouth, meant to speak, but instead just breathed out a ragged sigh, his fingers catching in the soft knit of Daisuke’s favorite t-shirt.  When no words came forth, Daisuke set to movement again.  His lips whispered over delicate collarbone, and a shiver danced down Ken’s spine.   His mind blinked out as fingers skirted down his ribs, then fumbled with his belt buckle.   Again, the alarm, and his hand snapped out, seizing Daisuke’s wrist.    
  
This time, he stopped cold.     
  
“What’s the matter?” Daisuke seemed afraid to ask.      
  
Ken squirmed against the chair, his body pinned beneath Daisuke’s.  When he couldn’t free himself (really a futile effort to begin with), he turned his face away.   It wasn’t like him to deny Daisuke anything, _ ever _ .  There was very little he didn’t  __ want to give to his best friend, his partner, his --   
  
And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to.  But here, and now?  It had all happened so fast --  He hadn’t expected to wind up half-drunk and sweating from more than the heat of a summer evening.  His heart hammered against his breastbone, his head swimming with a malted cocktail of desire and uncertainty.  He still held tight to Daisuke’s wrist, but when he tried to summon words, they failed him. His silence pushed Daisuke to soften, to shift over him and take back some of his weight.   
  
“Did I do something wrong?” Daisuke asked, his tongue twisted with a wounded confusion.     
  
Ken swallowed, loosened his grip, and dared to meet his gaze again.  The smoldering heat beneath warm eyes entranced him, drew him in, made him want to drink in every inch of sun-kissed skin and card his fingers through the soft mop of his hair.  He’d never felt so torn over something -- never wanted something so badly, and yet been so filled with the urge to flee as far and fast as he could.   
  
“No,” the word fell softly from his lips. Those brown eyes brightened, and he smiled that smile that could have rivaled the sun itself.     
  
He wanted to give Daisuke everything, but as his chin dipped, his hands drifted, and Daisuke was drunk on more than just cheap beers.  It stirred fire and fear in his belly, a quaking, sweating nausea.  Ken set his own hands squarely on Daisuke’s shoulders and resisted.    
  
“No,” he repeated, with more firmness this time.     
  
Daisuke pulled his head back, leaned into Ken’s hands, and stared with all the confusion of a scolded child.  For a moment, Ken felt his resolve wavering.     
  
“I mean...  I’m sorry.  I’m just, not ready yet.”   
  
He bit down on his tongue and waited as his heartbeat climb to such a pace that it felt more like a rolling thunder than a beating drum.  For one long minute, he felt as though he might fall to pieces, gripped with fear, with wondering if he had just single-handedly pushed away the best thing in his--   
  
“Ok.”   
  
Ken startled, and realized that his vision had gone out of focus.  He blinked, staring slack jawed, and Daisuke stared back at him with a sort of bashful shame.    He scrubbed a hand through his hair.    
  
“I don’t wanna push you into anything you’re not comfortable with!  There's no rush.”   
  
A soft kiss ghosted against his forehead, and then Daisuke withdrew from him.  The weight and the warmth were gone so quickly that for one powerful instant, Ken wanted it back.  Daisuke was normally such an immovable force.  When he had his mind set on something, he never gave up.  Persistence could have been his middle name!  And yet, for as much as Ken could tell he wanted it, all it took was one little word from him to stop him in his tracks.   
  
Maybe their relationship wasn’t as imbalanced as he’d feared.


	9. Sunrise to Sunset

**_9.7.17 -_ ** _ Sunrise/Sunset: It goes round and round. _

* * *

 

Three days.  It had been three days since he’d properly slept.  It had to have been.  He’d seen exactly three sunsets and three sunrises. Minutes bled into hours. The numbers on the clock felt arbitrary, and time lost all meaning.  The only true marker was the sun, rising and falling on what seemed like a whim.     
  
It was irrational, but if he had anything to say about it, he never wanted to sleep again.   
  
For so long, his memories had been obscured.  A fog that wrapped around colors and shapes and vague feelings, but nothing that made any kind of sense.  He did not know where they began, or where they ended.  He’d always known something was there, but maybe it was for the better that they stayed that way.  Hidden.  Lost.  And then all at once, they’d come to him.  Vivid.  Sharp.  Like movies you could taste and smell, haunting his dreams with a tangibility that rattled his insides.  People.  Places.  Pain.   _ Monsters _ .   
  
Ryo.   
  
The first night had been alarming, but he’d had nightmares before.  They plagued him regularly. But this one had been different, he could  _ feel _ it in a way his other dreams never quite managed.  Then they came again, the next night, and the next, and by the end of the week he refused to let sleep take him again.      
  
The sun slipped slowly in the sky as Ken stared out the window, the clouds painted a vibrant citrus hue.  The world seemed to stretch, and blur, and visions of a brown-haired boy in the desert danced through his head.  Where had he gone?  How long had Ken forgotten him completely, as if he’d never existed? The guilt gnawed at him as much as the fear.     
  
And there were times he almost nodded off, sank to his bed the way the sun sank below the horizon.  Maybe, just for a moment, he would close his eyes, and--   
  


Then he would see that  _ thing _ , all black and metal and blood behind his eyelids.  Sand, and a sky on fire, and he wanted nothing to do with sleep at all.  He could practically feel the darkness leaking from the creature’s dank mouth, threatening to drown him.  He choked on a scream and his eyes flew open.  His bedroom had grown dark with night, and Wormmon laid curled, contended on the pillow by his head.  He sighed softly, gently stroking the large caterpillar between his antennae.  Ken knew he worried about him.  There were times he wanted to ask, if Wormmon remembered any of that time, those places, that beast…   
  
But he couldn’t ask.  How could he ask now, when he’d spent so long living in oblivion.   
  
His heavy head rolled to the side, facing out his bedroom window.    
  
Four sunsets.  It was four now, wasn’t it?   Or did that flash of nightmare count as sleep, his clock now reset?   
  
As he listened to the gentle snores of his digimon partner, Ken wondered.  If he surrendered to the dreams, if he relived every gruesome detail, would they leave him alone?  Or would they then merely haunt his memories, along with all the rest that weighed him down on his worst days.   
  
He wasn’t ready to find the answer just yet.


	10. Holding Hands

**_10.5.17 - Holding Hands: The first time you held someone’s hand._ **

* * *

 

The thing about being friends before dating, was that a lot of little firsts had quickly passed them by without the weight and fanfare they might normally have had.  For kids, Holding Hands was like that First Step into Loving someone, and even as innocent a gesture as it was, it was something he never quite let go of.  He remembered their first kiss, first sleep-over, first time they’d fumbled half-naked out of bed because his sister had knocked on the door to tell them that Dinner was Ready.  But holding hands?   
  
He was sure they’d done it dozens of times, at least.  One of them grabbing the other, pulling them out of danger, locking fingers in a show of shared strength and support for one another.  He knew the touch of that hand as if it were a favorite pair of gloves, but it had never meant anything.   
  
But for something that had never meant anything, he was oddly fixated on it now that he’d noticed.  
  
Ken never took his hand in public.   
  
 Daisuke had tried once, and Ken had expertly slipped just out of reach of his finger-tips.  He’d covered it well enough, but Daisuke knew a deliberate slight when he saw one.  Sure, he knew they were playing things low-key, that Ken wasn’t into public displays of affection, and certainly wasn’t ready for anyone to even speculate that he might be anything other than straight.   Still, seated side-by-side on the train, Daisuke leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at him from the corner of his eye.   Train Rides were always a little awkward; it wasn’t polite to converse loudly in the cars, so most of their time was spent watching for their stop, or staring at the familiar scenery as it whizzed by.     The train was oddly empty for a Saturday afternoon, and the few others on board were fixated on their phones or looking out the windows.  Ken sat with his knees pressed together, hands at his sides, running his thumb over the worn upholstery of the seat.    
  
It would be so easy to reach out and take hold of those fussing fingers, fold them into his palm, and keep them there until they had to get off the train.  No one would notice, surely.    Casually, Daisuke leaned in, planting his hand on the seat between them.  When Ken did not react, he discreetly reached his pinky finger, brushing it against the side of his hand.  Ken jumped, pulled his hand away as if bitten, and Daisuke recoiled in reflex.  He watched the recognition dawn in Ken’s eyes – that it had just been him, not some wayward bug or stranger – and his shoulders relaxed.  Still, the damage was done.  Daisuke inched away, the mildest of pouts on his face, and he exhaled with a sigh.    
  
He’d been stupid to try.   
  
A whole minute passed with Daisuke gripping the edge of the seat, his eyes locked on the beer advertisements over their heads.  Then, all at once, he felt Ken’s hand laid over his own.  His palm was warm, and oddly soft compared to Daisuke’s own.   He straightened up, stole a glance at the young man beside him, and realized their shoulders were only a breath away from touching.  His heart stuttered and threatened to soar out of his throat.  Daisuke turned his hand, slowly, carefully, afraid that he would startle him away, like a baby deer.  Instead, their fingers wove together, locking palm-to-palm.  Of all the dozens of times he’d taken Ken’s hand, or Ken had taken his, this was different.  There had always been a reason, a need, but not today.    Today, it was just because he wanted to.  And more than their first kiss, or the first time they’d seen every inch of each other under cover of low light and closed doors, Daisuke knew he’d remember this until he was old and gray.   His hand felt like strength, and confidence, and a quiet declaration.  Daisuke closed the space between them, pressing shoulder to shoulder, enfolding their hands in the space between them.  

Funny how he’d wanted so much for a public display of feelings, and now he just wanted to wrap it up in a velvet box and keep it for themselves.  


	11. Alarm Clock

**11.2.2017 -** _**Alarm Clock: Write about waking up.** _

* * *

 

****

The morning came before he knew he’d even fallen asleep.  The sound of his phone, vibrating against the coffee table with the familiar ring-tone drew him out of the dark.  Slowly, one eye cracked open.  He was warm, pinned against the sagging couch cushions by a weight he could not see, but felt all the same.  Against his back, the couch seemed to breathe, a deep inhale that pressed into the curve of his back.  He reached blindly for the phone, and the set of arms tightened around him with a deep and hearty groan.  A nose pressed into his shoulder, and soft hair tickled his ear.     
  
The memory of the night before drifted back to him, and the world solidified around him.  The old green couch in Daisuke’s family apartment.  Vacant, aside from them, his family off on a vacation that Daisuke had missed out on all because Ken had gotten it into his head that he was better off away from all of them.  He squirmed in Daisuke’s grip, bemused at how things had ended up.  He wiggled an arm free and slapped around for the offending buzzer. 

“S’too early,” Daisuke slurred, “turn it off.”   
  
“I was trying, but then you held me down,” Ken remarked blearily, fingers fumbling blindly in the onslaught of daylight.     
  
“S’cuz yer  _ warm _ ,” said Daisuke, nuzzling in all the closer.   The two of them were skin-to-skin by the feel of things.  

  
Ken rolled his eyes.  Finally, the room was silent again.  “Good morning to you, too.”   
  
Daisuke groaned yet again in protest.  “This isn’t  _ morning _ , it’s the crack of dawn.”   
  
“Technically, they’re the same thing,” replied Ken.  “...And it’s not that I mind the… closeness, but could you let go?  You’re crushing my ribs.”   
  
With another caveman-like grumble, Daisuke obliged, and Ken breathed deeply as he inched out of his boyfriend’s embrace.  The air-conditioning had been left to run the night before, and without his living blanket, the room was quite cold, especially for his state of half-dress.  Briskly, he rubbed his hands over his arms, all the colder for the warmth he remembered from moments ago.  Finally, sleep-bleary eyes landed on his discarded shirt.  With one hand, he pulled the worn afghan blanket up over Daisuke, and reached for his shirt with the other.  Like the rest of the room, it was cold, and did little to soothe his discomfort.     
  
“Do you want to go get some--”  Ken began to ask, but when he turned back, he was greeted by soft snores, and long lashes draped over tan cheeks.  Daisuke had replaced him with a pillow from the couch, and quickly dropped back to sleep.  Ken heaved a sigh, and reached for his jeans.     
  
“Guess that’s a no.”


	12. Refreshed

**11.30.2017 - _Refreshed: Write about a time you really felt refreshed and renewed._**

* * *

 

  
Summer was easily the worst time of year.  The sun blistered and burned, and the air weighed more than air had any right to.  The sound of cicadas and softly whirring fan blades buzzed in her ears as Miyako stared mindlessly up at the ceiling.   She whined to herself, turned her face into her tiny desk-fan, and was not surprised at the last of satisfaction that came from it.  It seemed more effort than it was worth!   
  
“That’s it.  I’m just going to fry up like bacon.  This is it, this is where I die,” she declared, throwing a sweaty arm over her eyes and instantly regretting the sensation.     
  
The bell-like giggle drifted n her ears, and she dared to peel her forearm from her eyes.   
  
“You’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”  Hikari asked, smiling as she gently swirled a glass in her hand, ice cubes clinking as they settled.  She held a second glass over Miyako, condensation already sweating down the sides and dripping onto her face.     
  
It was her personal oasis in the middle of the desert.  With a gasp and a cry of glee, she held out her hands, and Hikari gently set the glass in her hand.  Cold, and damp, and full of the hope that there was sweet, sweet relief to be had!  She gulped it greedily, felt the trails that missed her lips and ran down her chin, the shock of cold against her burning insides, and the sweet chilling trail it left behind in its wake.  In seconds the glass contained only half-melted ice, and she quickly tipped them into her hands and swiped them all across her brow and neck.   
  
“Aaaaah,” she sighed, and shivered, and cradled the quickly melting rocks in her palms like a priceless treasure.  “Hikari-chan, you are a _life saver._ ”   
  
Hikari stared at her over the rim of her own glass.  And then she let out a bark of laughter.   
  
“It’s just water, Miyako-san.  There’s plenty more of it in the kitchen you know.”   
  
But it was more than just water and ice.  It was a promise of comfort, and salvation, and shade at the end of a long walk through blinding sunlight.   It was the pair of hands that delivered it to her like her own personal angel of mercy, and the girl they belonged to.  Miyako’s manic smile eased, and the air no longer felt so oppressive, nor the sound of the cicadas so grating.  With a soft, joy-drunk giggle, Miyako leaned her head against Hikari’s shoulder.     
  
“What’d I ever do to deserve someone being so good to me?”  she trilled.  It was rhetorical of course, but Hikari reached and pulled the sweaty hair from Miyako’s brow and left a gentle brush of her lips in its place.   
  
“Just lucky I guess.”   
  
Maybe Summer had its good points after all.  


	13. Drama

**12.14.17 - Drama: Write about a time when you got stuck in between two parties fighting with each other.**

* * *

 

It was a special kind of hell, when your best friend and your significant other didn’t get along.  
  
“You can’t just go around SAYING things like that!” Miyako shrieked.  
  
“Why not?  It’s not like it’s not true,” Daisuke snapped back.  
  
Ken sat to the side of it all, massaging his temples, trying to pretend like none of this was happening.  Miyako and Daisuke had always fought like cats and dogs, but most of the time, they were fine with each other.  Ever since Ken had started to go out with Miyako though, things had been getting progressively worse.   Daisuke egged Miyako on more than usual, and Miyako had become less and less astute at ignoring the bait.  But she gave as good as she got, and the result was often Ken removing himself from the room while they screamed it out.  It hadn’t come to blows -- yet -- but his nerves were fraying to their very last end.    
  
“Um, because people are going to get ideas about you two.”  
  
Ken’s head snapped up.  Wide eyes shifted back and forth between his feuding friends.  Daisuke was all tight shoulders and bared teeth, and Miyako was doing that thing where her nostrils flared to twice their normal size.  
  
“What, just because you two are *dating* now, I’m supposed to just, what?  Change how I act?”  
  
All at once, the source of their escalating conflict was revealing itself, and Ken could not believe what he was seeing.  He felt as though he’d been dunked in a bucket of ice water, a stark contrast to the two in front of him who were practically spitting fire.     
  
“Wait, wait,” Ken cut in, and suddenly both of their heads turned to look at him with such resounding speed, he swore he heard their necks snap.  “I may be presumptuous here, but… have you two been fighting more often… because of  _me_?”  
  
Miyako sputtered indignantly, and Daisuke had the decency to look ashamed.   
  
“He’s the one who keeps making suggestive comments and hanging all over you--”  
  
“ME?  You’re the one who keeps pushing me out of things! You know, Ken was my best friend before he was your boyfriend--”  
  
“Right,  _my_  boyfriend, not  _yours_ \--”  
  
They were back at each other’s throats, and all the air had left Ken’s lungs.  His insides had quickly turned to a tumultuous butter churn of unnamable feelings.  Anger was in there somewhere, and disappointment, and something hot and nauseating.  Their words became an indistinguishable series of screeches and howls,   He wanted to scream at both of them, but he feared if he opened his mouth, all that would come out was the bile he could taste rising in his throat.    
  
When he turned and began walking away from the both of them, hands clenched and jaw set, they stopped mid-screaming-match, nose to nose, and looked at his retreating form.  
  
“Look what you did, you made him upset,” Daisuke grumbled, pulling away from Miyako and pursuing Ken.  
  
“Me?  What makes you think it wasn’t you?” Miyako snipped.  
  
Ken whirled on his heel and faced them both, feet planted, and fists at his sides.   
  
“Why can’t you both just *stop* for one minute?” he snarled, “How could you think that this would ever be okay!  You two are supposed to be friends!  You’re both so important to me, I can’t stand to watch you going at it like this.  Over what?  Over who has more of a *right* over me?”  
  
Miyako and Daisuke both froze, staring at him in utter disbelief.  Ken heaved a ragged sigh, and scrubbed a hand through his hair.    
  
“I… I think I need a moment away from both of you,”  he croaked.  
  
And this time when he turned and began walking away, they let him. 


	14. Slip Up

**12.21.17 - Slip Up: Write about making mistakes.**

* * *

 

“I said I was sorry… what more do you want?”   
  
Without so much as a word, Ken shut his book, slipped it into his bag, and rose from the table.  The sound of his footsteps were the thunder of an angry god as he marched across the library, toward the exit.  Daisuke was fast on his heels, stumbling around chairs, and mumbling apologies to innocent bystanders.   
  
He’d screwed up.  He knew he had.  It was quite possible that he had never screwed up so spectacularly in all his life.  Just a slip of the tongue, but he may as well have dropped a nuclear warhead in the middle of the Ichiiouji household.  Even covering it up, as sloppily as he had, Ken had been giving him the silent treatment for a solid three days, avoiding him at every turn, and point blank refusing the have this conversation.  Daisuke meant it when he asked what more he wanted -- he’d have done anything to get Ken to so much as say his *name*.   
  
By the time he got outside, Ken had already reached the corner.  Daisuke took off at a dead run, and though Ken quickened his pace, he caught up with him soon enough.  He reached out, latched onto Ken’s elbow, and the look Ken gave him was positively withering.     
  
“Let go,” he said, and though his tone was cold, and half-dead, he had _spoken_  and Daisuke pressed forward.   
  
“Please, Ken.  I just want you to talk to me.   I didn’t mean to -- it just came out -- you know I’d never-- I didn’t think--” Daisuke stammered.   
  
“That’s just it,” Ken cut in.  “You didn’t _think_.  You **never**  think about these things.”   
  
Ken pulled his arm away, and Daisuke felt the cold bite of air against his palm  For a moment, they lapsed into silence.  But Ken wasn’t walking away this time, and Daisuke latched onto even the barest glimmer of hope.     
  
“Please,” he asked again, softer this time, leaning in closer.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.  I know you don’t want this whole thing *out* but I just… I just feel so natural with you.  It doesn’t seem _wrong_ , and sometimes I forget that…”   
  
Ken glanced at him from the corner of his eyes.  “That my parents are very _traditional_?”   
  
Daisuke wilted, and the hand that had been reaching for Ken’s hair retracted, and scrubbed shamefully through his own instead.  “Yeah…”   
  
The silence stretched between them, and Daisuke grasped for a thread to hold Ken there.  “...Can you forgive me?”   
  
For every second that passed, Daisuke held his breath, feeling like he might drop dead right then and there on the sidewalk.  Ken shifted his bag from one hand to the other,  and exhaled softly, his breath visible in the winter chill.    
  
“I… need some time alone.  To think about it.  Alright?”   
  
Daisuke could do little else but nod.  “Ok…”   
  
Ken turned on his heel and began walk toward the train station.  This time, Daisuke did not follow.  He felt his lungs turn to cement, unable to breathe, his hand trembling as reality sank in.  This time, he’d really done it. 

This time, he might lose him for good. 


	15. Spice

**12.28.17 -  Spice:** _Write about flavors and tastes or a favorite spice of yours._

* * *

 

As a future professional chef, If anyone asked Daisuke, everything had a taste.  And not just food, and drinks, but weather, and feelings, and even colors.     
  
He remembered the taste of his first snow.  Turning round in circles with arms outstretched, tongue extended to catch the flakes as they fell from the heavens.  He remembered the dizzy feeling of too much spinning, and the coppery flavor the fall to his backside added to the cold and bitter taste of the snowflakes.  It tasted like he imagined rocks would.    
  
And Daisuke knew and cherished the taste of Freedom -- that sweet and spicy breeze across his senses as the final school bell rang and classes were released for summer break.  The sunshine was like cinnamon and honey to his skin, a satisfying burn against his eyes.    
  
He also knew the bitter taste of loneliness.  Of being picked last for games, of being left to sit alone during lunch, the salt and tang thick in the back of his throat. That one was always hard to swallow.

  
By the time he was into his teens, he thought he could have recreated any feelings with the right combination of spices.   
  
But he’d spent a year trying to decipher the blend that made up his Boyfriend.  The more he discovered, the harder it became to pin him down.  His skin was like seasalt and fennel, sharp and heavy all at once.  Just the scent of his hair sent whispers of charcoal and mint across the back of Daisuke’s tongue.  Those lips, thin but soft, were like candy and flowers, like caramel and rose petals, and smooth like wit in his tongue.   He was bitter, and sweet, and salt, and tart, and ever-changing, and it brought Daisuke back again, and again,  and again, wondering at every new taste his palette could not name.     He began to label flavors with feelings, and feelings with colors, until at last he gave up trying to replicate it, and surrendered.   
  
Ken simply tasted like Home.    



	16. Sing for a Ring

**1.4.18 - Sing a New Song: Take a song and rewrite it in your own words.**

* * *

 

 _There’s a shop down the street where they sell plastic rings for a quarter a piece, I swear it_  
_I know that it’s cheap, not like gold in your dreams, but I hope that you’ll still wear it._  
_The ink may stain my skin and my jeans may all be ripped,_  
_I’m not perfect, but I swear I’m perfect for you._  
_And there’s no guarantee that this will be easy,_  
_it’s not a miracle you need, believe me_  
_Now I’m no angel, I’m just me, but I will love you endlessly._  
\- "Endlessly" by The Cab

 

The wedding had been absolutely beautiful.  Sora was a vision in white chiffon, and she drifted across the floor like a cloud.  Yamato wasn’t one for outward expression, but he hadn’t stopped smiling all evening.  The wine flowed like an endless fountain, and the dancing carried on until night became morning, the guests thinning out one by one, or in pairs.   The drifting of bodies was like a living mosaic, family and friends and lovers alike moving apart and coming together again.  Roughly two bottles in, Daisuke and Ken had quietly slipped out of the party, giggling to themselves.  At the first sign of an empty hall, Daisuke had beset his boyfriend with tender lips and wandering hands.   _Just wait_ , Ken urged him, just as far gone, but still somehow so much more the sensible of the two.    
  
“I have a surprise for you,” Daisuke whispered against his lips, taking Ken’s hand in his and leading him down the hall.  
  
“Where did you disappear to earlier?”  Ken asked, tripping behind him, but Daisuke did not answer.    
  
Head still fuzzy, Ken sobered somehow.  “Hey.  Daisuke?”  
  
“Shhh.  Just wait.” 

Three hall turns and five minutes later, they emerged into the courtyard garden of the hotel.  Not a single other guest or patron lingered, all either dancing the night away, or tucked snuggly in their beds.  Ken listened to the sound of cicadas in the summer heat, took in the silver-bathed beauty of the roses, and felt the melancholy returning.  

  
_I'm a bit envious_ , he’d confessed quietly to Daisuke when Sora and Yamato had walked back down the aisle, arm in arm, and all smiles.  
  
_Of what,_ he’d asked.  
  
And Ken had looked at his bare left hand, and sighed.  
  
_We’ll never have that, will we?_  
  
But then Daisuke turned to him, smiling in the moonlight as he dug into his pocket.  Mild panic flitted across his face as he dug deeper.  And then, the smile returned, brighter than before as he withdrew his hand, curled in a fist around what seemed to be nothing, or at the very least, something so small it was easily concealed in his palm.  
  
“I was thinking about what you said earlier,” said Daisuke, trying his best to look sober through his giddy fog.  “Hold out your hand.”  
  
Ken raised a brow. “Where are you going with this?”  
  
“Just do it, ok?”  
  
Wary, Ken lifted his hand, palm up, and Daisuke laid his fist into it.  Slowly, his fingers uncurled, and Ken felt the small object sandwiched between them.  Round, and flat, and unremarkable.  
  
“I don’t really have the money to get you something nice.  And I know we can’t … _really_  have all that, because… well, we just can’t.”  Despite the alcohol, Daisuke was more sober in that moment than he had ever been.  As he looked up, Ken thought he saw the same melancholy longing that he felt, reflected in those warm eyes. “But, I saw these at a shop down the way, and I know it’s just plastic but…”  
  
Slowly, Daisuke withdrew his hand.  Nestled in Ken’s pale palm sat a resin ring, plated in something silver and reflective, and lines etched in.  Ken felt his heart leap, and do somersaults, and when he looked up to meet Daisuke’s gaze, he saw him holding up a matching band between his thumb and index finger.    
  
“I know what we have isn’t easy.  We’re gonna hit a bunch of road-blocks no matter what we do, and I can’t give you everything you deserve but… we can have this much.  If you want it.”  
  
The image in front of him blurred behind a veil of mist, and Ken threw his arms around Daisuke with a wet sob.    
  
“...That a yes?”  
  
Ken pressed his face into Daisuke’s neck, smiling through his tears.  “What do you think?” 


	17. Where That Place Used To Be

**_3.8.2018 -  Where That Place Used to Be:_ Think of a place you went to when you were younger but it now no longer is there, or is something else. **

* * *

  
  
The iMart had been in the hands of the Inoue family for at least as long as Miyako could remember.  She’d spent the greater part of her life in and out of the convenience store, under familiar fluorescent lights. The smell of well-worn linoleum and freezer coolant were things she could practically trick her mind into perceiving when she thought about it.    
  
When her parents retired, it was expected that at least one of the four Inoue children would fall back on the family business.  It was a surprise to everyone, when none of them claimed it.    
  
It seemed a whole lifetime ago.  She was Grown now, married, a career and a gaggle of three children of her own, with the wrinkles setting into the corners of her eyes.  She’d moved out of Odaiba over a decade before, and once her parents had been moved to a retirement facility on the mainland, saw no reason to return. Still, she half expected it to be there when she stood on the corner.  If not the Inoue’s, surely someone–  
  
But, where once had been the iMart was now filled with an electronics repair shop.  The place had been gutted, vinyl replaced with a static-resistant industrial carpet.  Everything was metal and glass now, shelves filled with brightly printed boxes, and the interior appeared half its previous size.  Maybe it’s because she was bigger now, or maybe it was the wall she didn’t remember being there, creating what must now be a back store room.  Her youngest’s hand clutched in hers, she stared through wire-rimmed oval glasses and tried to imagine a back room filled with wires and cases and motherboards and graphics cards…  she knew all of those things well, it wouldn’t have been hard to picture–  
  
Except all she could see was the back freezer, the rear door, the place where they stocked perishables. The sound of crinkling packages of snack foods echoed in the back of her mind as the automatic sliding glass doors parted before her.  The cool rush of conditioned air smelled like ozone and heat, and she stared right through the young man that greeted her.  It wasn’t until she felt the tug on her hand, the tiny voice saying “Mama,”, that she snapped back to reality.   
  
“Ma’am?  Can I help you?”  he tried again.  
  
She looked at him and blinked owlishly.  
  
“No.  Sorry I… I think I have the wrong address.”  
  
Plastering on a smile, Miyako gently squeezed her little boy’s hand, and guided him down the sidewalk.    
  
She never got a chance to say Goodbye.  She never knew she’d want to. And now, that chance was gone. 


	18. Missing You

_4.12.18 - Missing You: Write about someone you miss dearly._

* * *

_  
_Watching Daisuke get on that plane to America was almost certainly the hardest thing Ken had ever done in his young adult life.  They were 18-years-old, right on the cusp adulthood, true independence, striking out in the world.  Ken just hadn’t expected Daisuke to strike out so far away from home..  
  
The picture in the frame on his desk was an old one.  Well favored, faded beneath the glass, covered in fingerprints from Ken’s most recent round of pensive touch.  In it, they still held the softness of childhood in their smiling faces, Arms around each other’s shoulders, a reflection of a time that felt so long ago now.   They say you never forget your first love, but Daisuke was more than that to him;  he was his first real friend, the first person who ever reached out to him.  His rock, and pillar, the sunshine that broke through the clouds that hung so heavily over Ken.  His thumb grazed the edge of the old wooden frame, and much as he wanted to smile, he couldn’t.    
  
 _Come with me_ , Daisuke had said.  
  
And for a single moment, Ken had considered it.  But it would never have worked.    
  
 _Then, I’ll stay here_ , Daisuke said.  
  
But that was even worse.   
  
Getting accepted into a culinary school in New York was more than Daisuke could have ever asked for.  It was an unbelievable opportunity.  Ken could never have asked him to give that up, and to tag along would just have left him even more isolated.  In America, Daisuke would be his life-line and his only contact.  Ken’s English was good, but his social skills had never blossomed as much as they should have.  Daisuke was effortlessly vivacious and energetic, and if Ken had gone along with him, at best he would have been an anvil around Daisuke’s neck; at worst, he would have been a living ghost in some cracker-box apartment in a strange city.  
  
Every day, Ken selfishly wished he’d gone anyway, or that he’d told him to stay.  Daisuke was the summer sun, and Ken felt lost in endless winter in his absence.  They lived on opposite schedules, Day and Night at odds with one another, as if the very fabric of the universe conspired to keep them apart.  He may as well been plucked from existence! It felt as though a part of him had been severed, and no amount of food or drink could fill the void that seemed to have opened in his chest.  Eventually, he stopped trying.  Ken had buried himself in his coursework, and every minute not spent on papers and spreadsheets and reading materials, his mind turned to the Daisuke-shaped hole in his life.  
  
He set the old photo aside, and glanced at the calendar on his desk, scarred in red x’s.  Every day, he marked another one out.  He flipped through the pages, looking for the days of summer vacation blocked out in yellow highlighter.  All he had was a promise of a visit during the time between terms.   
  
Until then he would have to subsist on emails and old photos.   He could do that… right?


End file.
